“Both of them,” she said.
Now the others were hidden behind the shrubbery. In a minute they’d be through the gate. She drifted swiftly after. There was the place on the gravel where she had found him lying. The pebbles were still scuffed about. But even if the gardener raked the path a thousand times she would never forget that exact spot. They were at the gate. The children were showing him how fine it is for swinging on. All was clear in her mind. She would tell the girls to run ahead, and as they twinkled down the slope she would turn to Martin. Her eyes would tell him everything.... No, not everything; but enough to begin with.
Then, I love you, she would say. Softly. She whispered it to herself to be sure she had the right intonation. How long was it since she had said that as it should be said, with amazement and terror? Ten years? Why, a woman ought to be able to say it like that—well, every other year anyhow.
“Don’t swing on that gate more than one at a time,” she called. “You’ll break the hinges.” And added, to justify herself in Martin’s ears, “Remember, chickens, it’s not our gate.”
They turned, surprised to see her following.
“Children,” she began, “you run ahead, I want——”
The alert, attentive faces of the little girls were too much for her. They gaped over the palings. They knew (she felt sure) that something queer was happening. They always know, as calmly detached as nurses in a hospital who smile faintly at what the patients say under ether.
She hesitated, looking down at her ankles. How trim and orderly they were; when she put on those white silk stockings this morning she had had no idea of all this happening.
She heard the gate clash to, but still paused, her face averted. She wanted her eyes to reach his slowly. For after that it would be too late to plan things. There was a lonely marching in her blood. Then, trembling, she looked.
He wasn’t there. He too had run on with the children. All four, far down the hill, romping to the beach together.